


the end of the line

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: AU, Cairo Day 2020, Gen, Grief, Hurt, Presumed character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: "Cause I'm with you til the end of the line."Cairo Day Seven: Alternate Universe
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because some of my other stories this week took up more than their fair share of time (I'm looking at you "febrile") This is more of an introduction to an AU that I've been wanting to play with.

Mac straightens his tie. Fingers lingering against the knot at his throat. One side of his mouth pulls upward into some sort of smile. It’s cracked. Fragile. If he looks at it too long or too hard it will break.

Jack bats his fingers away complaining. “I finally got you all spit and polished up. Don’t go twisting that tie and undoing all my hard work.”

His jacket, freshly pressed hangs from his dresser drawer. It’s heavier than he remembers as he pulls it from the hanger and slides it over his shoulders, smoothing the lines, fastening gold buttons. Ignoring the way his hands shake. 

He runs a comb through his hair. Longer than he ever wore it while in this uniform. Brushing against his collar. His old CO would be yelling at him to go get shorn if he could see Mac now. “Make sure your boy meets regulations, Dalton.” He’d yell as Jack protested that Mac is old enough to take care of himself.

Not that it would stop him from mother-henning the kid about anything else under the sun. Making sure he wore sunscreen. Yelling at him to stop taking apart his sunglasses for metal and tiny screws. Worrying about his sleeping habits. The way his appetite disappears after a tough run of days and missions.

He studies his pale reflection. Eyes reddened and sunken. Skin blotchy. Worn.

Drained. Empty. Like someone cut him open and scooped out the life.

He’s just so tired. He wants today to be over. Wants today to never happen. 

Wants to rip off the uniform. Stomp on it. Ball it up and toss it in the corner, crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head. 

He wants to go to sleep. Dreamless sleep and never wake up. 

Wants to forget. 

He licks his chapped lips, catching a piece of flaking skin between his teeth. Pulling until it bleeds.

“Sorry, I can’t be there with you today.”

Jack reaches out, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from Mac’s shoulders, his hand resting there for a minute, warm through the wool uniform. Leaning against his back. Close and comforting.

“I’d give anything so you don’t have to do this alone.” 

Swollen eyelids close against the onslaught of the burning flood. 

Mac swallows, his voice cracking. “If you were here, I wouldn’t have to do this.” 

He looks up at the blank spot over his left shoulder. The spot that should be filled. That has always been filled with love and a larger than life presence. 

He can’t do this.

He spins on his heel, stalking down the hallway. His dress boots clacking against the hardwood floors. The house is dark. Dusty. Shades drawn tight against the windows, as if he could just shut them tightly enough he could close out the rest of the world. Keep it from breaching the interior, keep out the news he never wanted to receive. Keep today from happening.

The walls are closing in. His hand tugs at the tie, again. It’s choking him. He pulls the knot loose. 

Jack scolds him.

It doesn’t help. He still can’t breathe. 

Hasn’t been able to for a week.

Longer if he’s honest with himself. Months and months, but it’s worse now. There was hope before. Now he thinks he might never breathe again. 

It’s too much. 

He stumbles through the living room, tripping over the bike he disassembled, pieces scattered where they were thrown in rage. Throwing open the door, lurching blindly up the steps. Catching his shin on the broken lumber of what was once an Adirondack chair. Past the broken glass in the fire pit of a bottle thrown in despair. 

In all encompassing grief. 

He makes it to the edge. To the low railing surrounding the deck, eyes unseeing the skyline that usually demands his attention, even after all these years, and collapses. 

He doesn’t know if it was a conscious decision or his legs just give out, finally said enough. Ordered him to stop running. Because he’ll never be able to run far or fast enough to outdistance… this…

His knees crack against the deck and he keeps going. Crumpling. Onto his hip, his hand finds purchase on the railing and he holds on. Head caught in the crook of his elbow, the only thing keeping him from continuing his downward spiral. The earth itself not even enough to stop his descent.

And for the first time in a week, his defenses fall too.

For the first time, the disbelief, the bargaining, the anger dissipates. The frantic hope that clings to any shred of evidence that they’re wrong shatters. 

And he cries. 

Shuddering sobs rip through him, racking and painful. Filling his throat and choking him. Gasping for each breath between each swell of tears. 

He can’t. 

He can’t. 

His chest, cracked wide open. Bones snapping. A gaping wound and it aches.

It hurts. 

The pain of Lake Como, can’t even compare. The death, the bullet. The dark murky depths that threatened to swallow him whole. Fire burned. The agony of lungs that refused oxygen, strangling him. Suffocating. That was merciful. 

Survival was an option. 

A hand reaching out for him. Lungs breathing life for him when his couldn’t. Pulling him from the deep, reaching past death, shoving it aside as though it was an afterthought. It had no strength, no power here. 

But there isn’t a way out of this. 

And he doesn’t know that he wants there to be.

* * *

His back is ramrod straight. The scent of oil sharp against his nose. The lower murmur of voices, echoing against the metal walls of the hanger. His eyes straight ahead. Lost. 

The moment Matty calls him into the War Room, _he knows_. Sunlight streaming through the hallways. Warmth. He’s in the middle of laughing at something Bozer says. Family. Riley is playfully shoving his arm. Love. An agent and an analyst from another team pass them. After so many months the edges don’t feel quite so sharp anymore. Quite so jagged and misplaced. 

At the end of the hall, a door clicks open. It reverberates in Mac’s head. Claiming his attention. Time slowing to a crawl. 

Bozer and Riley still laughing as his feet falter. 

The slow motion effect on Bozer’s camera as Matty steps into the hallway. The laughter fading behind the pulse echoing in his ears, falling silent. He can barely force himself forward. 

Matty’s face impassive as ever, nothing should have alerted him. But she sees the moment that he knows. And allows a small crack in the facade. Eyes fill with encompassing hurt.

In the stages of grief, they rarely talk about shock. Lumping it with denial. 

That doesn’t give shock it’s deserved merit. 

The way he feels the entire world shift on its axis. The way it sucks the breath from his lungs. How he felt his heart stutter and then stop. 

He moves from the hall to the War Room with no memory. He can barely hear the words Matty speaks. Lips parted trying in vain to breathe. He closes his eyes and when he opens then again he’s at home. 

Begging for it to be a dream.

Perfect posture. Shoulders back and spread broad. Filling in the shoulders of his uniform. And it is just slightly too big. He’d dropped weight. Hasn’t eaten in a week except for the single piece of pizza he managed to scarf down. It turned to ash in his mouth, catching on the lump in his throat, and he ignored Bozer’s disappointed look when he refused another one.

It has to be a dream. A nightmare. 

There has to be more to it than this. He throws himself into the Kovac files. Reading until his eyes are gritty and burn. Listening to the recordings of every briefing, every breach. Maybe he made it out. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe he left them a message in his word choice. Until Riley catches him at the crack of dawn, and his third day without sleep. 

“Please, don’t do this to yourself, Mac,” she begs him with tears in her eyes. “Don’t lose yourself in this. He wouldn’t want it.”

It can’t end like this. It can’t. 

Riley’s hand brushes against his arm and he didn’t think it was possible but his spine stiffens further.

He knows she’s reaching out for comfort. To give it and receive it. He’s pushed her away. Pushed all of them away, and they are trying so hard to not let him do it again. 

She’s the only person here who can come close to understanding the magnitude of the loss he feels. The vast haunting emptiness of his soul.

And he wishes he could accept her touch. Wishes he could pull her into his arms and they sob together in the backseat of the GTO. Jack’s kids. 

But he can’t. He can’t accept comfort. Or kindness. 

Can’t allow anyone to be gentle or soft with him because if he does he will break. He’ll break and not be able to gather the pieces. And he can’t afford to break. Not yet. He still has a job to do. He owes Jack that much.

He takes her hand, very carefully not looking at her face as it crumples, and passes her to Bozer. Trusting his best friend to take care of his sister while he finishes his duty. While he takes care of Jack. 

The boots of the rest of the honor guard click as they move into position, standing at attention. The cargo door of the plane lowers. Mac raises his hand in a salute. Keeping his gaze firmly forward. Eyes hardened. Ignoring the way they start to prickle and burn. 

He hears shuddered gasp from Bozer. 

The flag draped casket descends the gangplank, moving slowly. It’s a symbolic gesture. There’s barely a body to bury. His remains nearly obliterated. Sacrificing himself in an explosion to save his team. 

This can’t be how it ends. 

This friendship that turned into a deeper bond. More than family. Everything that he’s been through with Jack right there next to him. They were meant to go out together. One final ride, and Jack went alone.

Left him alone. 

He’s told that Jack’s last words were for him and Riley. 

He doesn’t know if he was told that to in some way try to ease the pain but it doesn’t help. The guilt piles on. He wasn’t there. He broke his promise. 

He doesn’t know what the last words he said to Jack were. 

Wishes he could go back. One more minute. 

He doesn’t know what he would say. Nothing would be enough. He’d probably just stand there, let Jack read his mind like he always could. Give weight to his emotions when Mac didn’t know how to address them. 

Effortlessly bonded, pledged his life to Mac. Together.

His fist clenches at his side. Blunt fingernails digging into his palm. All the times Jack vowed that he would be there. That nothing could take him from Mac.

“You promised.” 

He steps forward to receive the body. Dalton’s heroes take their places behind him. Promising to protect Jack one last time. To escort their friend to his final resting place. To give Mac enough strength to finish this last task. 

The reverb of gunfire rings out and for a second Mac thinks they started the gun-salute way too early, ready to whirl on the inept member of the honor guard who messed this up. Jack deserves more than the amateurish display. 

_Jack would howl with laughter,_ the thought whispers with a drawl.

Only the gunfire is aimed into the crowd, which is ill-advised at best and asinine at worst considering aside from himself and Diane, the entire group of mourners is well-armed and looking for a fight. And he’s already mentally put together a flame thrower and canon for himself and Diane.

He spies the flash of muzzle fire on the catwalk and takes off. 

Anger burning in his blood. Burning through his grief. 

Chaos reigns. Gunfire and yells. Pounding footsteps.

He hears Desi yelling at him to stay down as she provides cover fire. He’s taking the stairs two at a time, clanging against the metal. Following the masked sniper to the roof. Bursting through the heavy door just steps behind him.

He pulls his pocketknife, flipping open the wire cutters. Jumping up, he snags one of the live wires overhead, snipping through it, sparks flying. He pulls it loose from the braces keeping it suspended. Unfurling it, snapping it like a whip. Electricity crackles through the end as it arches high in the air. 

The sniper spins around, arm raised. His hand glints in the sunlight. Metal and gears. The improvised whip whirls around his arm, unphased by the spark crackling against him. He gives a heave and the other end is torn from Mac’s grasp.

Cold eyes meet Mac’s. Dark. Daring him to come closer before he dashes to the edge of the roof and jumps, using the wire to rappel down down the building. By the time Mac reaches the edge and looks over the side, the man is gone.

He slides down, sitting heavily against the parapet, raising a shaking, scorched hand to his hair. Chest heaving. 

The door to the roof blasts open, Desi leading the charge and Jack’s Delta Squad behind her.

“Mac!” Bozer yells, next out of the door after the Deltas. 

“Where is he?” Desi shouts.

Mac raises his hand in a shrug then gestures over the edge of the wall. 

Desi leans over the wall, half expecting to find splattered remains. Bozer crouches next to him while the Deltas investigate the rest of the rooftop, watching the lines of sight for other snipers.

“Hey, hey,” Bozer comforts, rubbing a hand against Mac’s heaving shoulder. “You okay? You didn’t… you weren’t hit or anything, right?” 

Mac shakes his head. He can’t slow down his breathing. Or stop his shaking. He hears his friends quietly murmuring in concern. Thinking this has been too much for him. That he finally snapped. He’s going into shock. He’s half surprised that they haven’t called someone to bring him a sedative. 

“I’m okay,” Mac says, accepting their help rising to his feet. He looks over the edge again. Scanning the tarmac. The figure in black is gone. Still no trace that Mac can see. The live wire still sparking and dancing on the ground. 

The way he turned. Grabbed the wire. Like he had known the move Mac was going to make before he made it. He couldn’t have predicted that. No one could have predicted that. Dark eyes meeting his, the rest of his face obscure, but his posture, his gait familiar. The position he selected in the rafters. His firing style. The way he ran when Mac gave chase. 

Those eyes. 

He’s quiet as they take him home. Staring blankly out the window, ignoring their questioning gazes. Their looks of concern.

Bozer offers him the meds the doc at Phoenix Med gave him for sleep. 

He hasn’t taken any. They make his brain muzzy. 

And he needs his mind clear. He doesn’t want to forget a second. Not until…

Not until he can explain why he thinks he was chasing a ghost. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on tumblr you may have read this chapter a few months ago when I first started working on this AU.

It’s cold when he wakes.

Except, waking implies sleep. And he doesn’t sleep. Not any more. Maybe not ever again. Maybe he never did.

Jerked from empty darkness. 

Gone and then here.

Cold and then…not…

Hands pull him from the darkness, out of his reprieve. 

His legs aren’t working. Bare feet scraping against the rough concrete floor. Muscles stiff and legs leaded, dragging behind. Suspended by his arms between two figures as he’s yanked from his cell. Shoulders wrenched and bruised.

The vestige of his strength sapped. He can’t dredge up the power to mount even a token resistance against moving. No words are spoken, but he knows they’re moving him to the lab. The place of horror that fills his waking moments. It fills even his not aware moments with revulsion. 

His head sways, hanging low. Greasy hair, long and falling into his eyes, obscuring his view of the blood spattered ground. Evidence that once upon a time, he fought back. 

He has no memory of that time, but something deep within him, not yet completely broken searches for that moment, aching to find it again. 

To believe that there was a time when his life was more than the dim lights and gray block walls. There was more than the distorted screams spilling from his throat. 

Once, he had the strength to oppose his assailants, rather than passively accept the pain that awaits him. He had a life. A reason to fight. 

He doesn’t know who that person is anymore.

Tortured and chased from him.

Once he had a name. 

Now he has nothing. 

He is nothing. 

Sometimes, right before he disappears, before he descends into sleep or unconsciousness or…

There is a flicker. A spark of hope that radiates in his mind. A tiny flame and a moonlit night a warmth he can’t identify but that he holds onto until the cold seeps into his bones. There was a life then. 

There was a name. 

When he wakes that spark is gone. 

Just cold remains. And pain 

And a penetrating sense of loss that is worse than anything they can put him through.

The hint of something that was. 

His body slams against the cold metal chair. His head drops against his bare chest. 

It is so heavy. 

And he is so tired.

He searches for something to hang onto because it is too much. A purpose. A reason to keep fighting when the pain floods through him because he doesn’t have much more to give. 

Arms and legs secured. Metal pinching, biting his skin. A bite guard shoved into his mouth. His teeth clench hard against the familiar rubber. Grooves worn down from frequent use. 

He breathes heavily, despite his patch work memory, he knows what’s coming next. 

And he is afraid. 

An arch of electricity dances over his skin. His muscles convulse, spasming. Joints seizing. And a scream is torn from his throat. He doesn’t try to fight the screams anymore. 

He doesn’t remember if he ever did.

The current releases it’s hold, and despite the restraints he slumps against the chair. Skin still prickling. 

_ “I need a connection piece like a binder clip or a stapler or a…” _

There’s a name on his tongue. Bridging a gap. 

Horrified cries that aren’t his own when the electricity snaps through him. Caught between the past and the present. He’s survived this before. Withstood shocks like this before for… someone… something… important… something worth the risk. 

Just hold on. A little longer.

Worse than the physical pain, is the agony of his mind being torn apart. Memories ripped away. His brain shredded and rewritten into something it’s not. Stealing everything from him.

Taking...

The voltage crackles again. The scent of burning skin and hair assaults him.

_ “I need you now. I need you now more than ever, buddy.” _

The sparks cease.

...Mac…

The current is off but the name causes a slow curl of pain, wrapping itself through his brain, piercing his skull. Punishing him for the thought. He pushes back against it slowly. Fighting. Resisting. 

Mac.

The decisive thought earns him a jolt.

The blond hair and blue eyes and the slow smile is worth it. He pushes again, against the triggers and time bombs hidden in a maze of synapses.

And… Riley…

A dark, snarky eyebrow raised in his direction 

His eyes slam shut at the punishing ache that throbs through his head. A whimper escapes bloodied, bitten lips. He holds onto the names.

Footsteps approach, but he holds onto their blurry faces. 

“So, after all this time, you still have some fight left in you.”

He raises his head. It’s a defiant action that will cost him, but he refuses to back down. Not now. Not when he has a thought of his own that isn’t terror and pain. 

He snarls against the mouthguard. The leather straps against his chest and wrists creak as his hands flex. 

“I bet you think you’re strong, because you can remember his name.” The man leans in closer. Breath hot against his skin. “But I’m going to take even that away from you. 

The bolts securing the chair to the floor shudder, the chair jumps as he throws himself against his restraints. He just ensured that he won’t be conscious when he leaves the lab today, but the spark of fear, the half step backward from the man before him makes that worth it. 

“He’ll come after you himself, because he won’t believe that you’ve gone feral. Won’t trust anyone else to bring you in. He’ll believe in you until the end. And you won’t recognize him when you squeeze the life from his body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for Cairo Week 2020. It's been a BLAST guys! Thanks so much for sticking with me and letting me indulge in some ideas I might not have gotten around to writing otherwise.
> 
> Love ya!   
> Pluto


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